


London

by Scotch_Mist



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Blood, Cake, Multi, Plotting, Trains, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3104129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scotch_Mist/pseuds/Scotch_Mist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War is coming...</p>
<p>The Being Human characters belong to Toby Whithouse, the other talented writers, and the BBC. </p>
<p>Dedicated to the PGs. x</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

LONDON - 1938

  
"But why do we have to go?" Herrick bit back a sigh of irritation at the interruption. His protégé was not only late, he smelt as though he'd half-drowned in a vat of Guinness on the way. Which judging by the look of him, he very probably had been. Mitchell, for his part, stood in the doorway, one hand trying vainly to keep his head from pounding, his bleary eyes not quite focusing on the scene that lay within. 32 Tiptree Gardens, the home, or more accurately, the former home, of Mr Albert Wainwright, had been a neat, well-kept semi. Nothing remarkable really, rather like its owner, whose day-old corpse had been laid out in front of the fire. It awaited disposal at a mutually convenient time. Mitchell watched sullenly as his maker worked silently to smooth the scene, to finesse the details. It seemed a run-of-the-mill kill, nothing special, yet there was something oddly disquieting about the scene, like some tired tableaux. Then he noticed the single glass on the mantle. He swallowed. _So that's it…_

  
Herrick tilted the man's head into a more natural position and stood back to assess the scene. For his last 'mistake' in Bristol, Seth would be the one sent for, to clean up the detritus of what had been a decidedly mixed night after all. The usual protocol for such situations was to cause as little trouble to the local network as possible, to sweep up after themselves and move on. A little of Wainwright's blood had seeped into the swirls of the ghastly patterned rug that lay beneath Herrick's feet. It was, he thought, a distinct improvement. A quiet removal, no family members left to speak of. Another of the forgotten people who waited silently, as the world passed them by. Ghosts created by life itself. No one to miss them, or mourn them. A name to be hurried over in a brief ceremony as a cheap coffin was lowered into cold ground. A man of god saying words he didn't believe in, over a man he'd never heard of. Anonymous rows of neat little graves, for anonymous persons. Herrick smiled to himself. Seth had almost managed to look suitably sombre at the last one;

"Hmm…tragic."

An accidental death, an old man hitting his head on the fireplace, nothing unusual at all. Apart from the fang marks just visible above the man's wrist. Still, the fireguard had sharp edges, a swipe of blood in the right places, just enough to blur the lines if anyone questioned the circumstances. It was unlikely that anyone would, an old man, living alone. Humans rarely looked beyond the end of their nose in Herrick's experience. Not until it was too late and their nose got bitten off…  
Herrick's sharp mind, as always, was working out all the angles, the best way to handle the difficulties, all the while studiously ignoring the increasingly uncomfortable Mitchell. It was a technique he'd learned to be a most effective way of disconcerting humans and vampires alike. Let him stew – a lesson for his lateness. Herrick went back to his calculations. Who was the coroner for this part of London? Technically it was just outside the boundaries, so no real need to inform the vampires' local head, but politics being what they were, and given just who was scattered over the roses at the back...No need for Mitchell to know _that_ little nugget of information.

"Herrick?" He straightened at the sound of his name. Mitchell was sounding more and more like a child these days. A blood-soaked child, certainly, but that annoying streak of petulance that had grown since the delightful sojourn abroad, was beginning to wear thin for the elder vampire. Mitchell's errors of judgement had proven costly lately. It had begun with that floozy in France. A needless recruit in his considered opinion, and one who'd nearly decapitated Seth when he'd made a slightly inappropriate remark - silk covered a multitude of sins, but couldn't hide the truth – Mitchell had wasted his wonderful dark gift on a vain, needy woman. Herrick had observed the traditional period of looking after the new recruit, but it had been the bare minimum before he'd quietly offloaded her as a gift to the Paris head. Mitchell had barely looked at her after the hotel room anyway, to the woman's deep indignation, and to Herrick's intense relief.

The highs of Paris had been replaced with a sense of boredom, and a growing need for recognition on Herrick's part. They had dined out on the tales ever since, Herrick carefully nurturing the younger vampire's reputation amongst their kind, vicariously enjoying the notoriety his recruit had won, with his own particular brand of violence and charm, but always improving his own standing at the same time. He thrilled at the darkness his protégé had shown in the years following his recruitment, priding himself at how well he had chosen, that fateful day in the muck and despair of the battlefield, at the young man gripping his gun, wide-eyed at the true horror unfolding. The mist lifting, as the fragile veil that separated humans from the brutal, beautiful truth of the world, fell away. His eyes settled on the crystal glass sitting on the mantle. The last of Albert Wainwright's pitifully weak blood sat, scarlet against the yellowing condolence card behind it. Herrick stepped over the man to read the handwriting.

"In deepest sympathy, on the loss of your son." A faded photograph of a uniformed young man. That had made Herrick's blood run cold. The sooner they were out of here the better. Wainwright had muttered "John? Have you found my boy John?" just before he lost consciousness, his eyes blurring with tears. Clearly a shilling short of a sixpence, thought Herrick. Almost a kindness to put him out of his misery. _Almost._

He turned, his cold eyes full of reproach. Mitchell tried to hold his gaze, but he knew better than to challenge Herrick when he had that shine in his eyes. No good ever came of it. He'd come to recognise the signs, the tightening of Herrick's expression. He looked away first, hating every minute of the close examination. He looked back, to find the expected rage replaced by a serene smile. That was Herrick all-over. Hot and cold. He was wearing his genial uncle mask now. The benign smile masking the monster within. That mildly patronising attitude, as though he was a five year old.

"You know why we are going Mitchell. One too many old son. One not enough."

 _Christ! Again with the mind games,_ thought the younger vampire. More of the "we are the future" bollocks. Ever since he'd been recruited he'd heard these words from Herrick, that vampires were the true rulers of the earth, that their time was coming. It made no difference to Mitchell, decisions being taken miles away by vampires spoken of in hushed tones, as though the mere mention of them could bring down the wrath of God. The deep reverence, and the naked ambition to become one of them, the mythical Old Ones, that his maker kept barely concealed. Hell, it was so obvious at times, Mitchell found it laughable. The desperate need to belong, Mitchell could understand, but heirs, rituals, mumbo jumbo…Where were they anyway? Hanging upside down in their caves, most likely…Stoker and his tales of vampires in spooky castles in the mist…He tried to change the subject, wary that Herrick would question his lateness further. He feigned an interest, as he fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette.

"You think war is coming then? That we'll be dragged into it?" A lighter was under his nose in a second – Herrick anticipating his moves, as ever, all behind a genial smile that never reached his eyes. Not for the first time Mitchell wondered about the sanity of his maker.

"War is always coming Mitchell, it's always there under the surface." Herrick's tone was serious for a moment. "This time, however, we won't be a part of it."

Mitchell shook his head, and smiled. The idea was unthinkable, given his experiences in the last war. The war had seemed to exist solely for their kind at times, the humanity wasted for patches of mud, the leftovers of the destruction lying there for the taking…so easy to drown in their blood…

_Too easy._

"No vampires?" The very idea was ridiculous to him. Herrick smiled.

"This will be a human war."

"Uh, aren't they all?" smirked Mitchell, remembering the old days with Herrick and the other vampires, as they'd feasted their way through the mire. A whisper of something, a faded memory, suddenly sharpening, shaping into something real, something tangible - sweat and sandbags, a bunker, a body lying there, a tang of something medicinal. Arthur.

_Not again._

His memories seemed to have a way of snaking into his veins, at the most inconvenient of times. It was a recent development. For the first few years he'd felt nothing, aside from that first month when he'd fought it, the hunger, and he had won, hadn't he? At least for a while. He'd run from Herrick and he'd coped. Rats and…worse…but he'd managed his…condition…until he could bare the aching, empty loneliness no longer…a stranger among humans…and Herrick had been waiting for him in the shadows, waiting for him to break, to fall…

He could feel a tremor in his hands, a chill seeping in. That was the booze talking – nothing more. Another lie to salve what was little remained of his conscience. The list was now longer than his arm.

"Not all." Herrick hesitated, noticing the change in him. A shift from night to day. The past. A place where he did not want Mitchell to be. He had a dark and wonderful future, unlike the bag of bones that lay at Herrick's feet. His protégé had shown less interest in the chase lately, a growing refusal to play the game. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Mitchell kill. Or feed for that matter. And that bothered him. He couldn't have his breaker of hearts softening. That would never do.

"We are not taking an active part this time." Mitchell looked up at his maker in disbelief. "Orders from on high. If it falls in your lap, fill your boots. Otherwise, stay clear."

"Why?" Mitchell asked, curious. Herrick shrugged.

"Who knows? How long is a piece of string?" His eyes scanned the room. A heavily embossed, if a little tarnished, silver photo frame, a couple of nice pictures. Threadbare carpet cut square, exposing the dark floorboards round the edges. Not much for a life, he thought, but every little penny helped. It would take Seth's mind off the fact that Herrick and Mitchell had vanished. It wouldn't be long before someone opened their mouth about the fact that the London head's mother had seemingly disappeared. And from there it wouldn't be long until her precious son worked out that she was no longer in the land of the 'living'. He had been a tad careless, it had to be said. It was meant to be a quiet word, a reasonable discussion, over a glass or two of admittedly poor quality blood, but she had been the one who'd started the argument, her fox fur barely on the settee:

"How dare you?! Jumped-up little clerk! Oh you're good for keeping lists, I'll give you that," she tore at her hat, yanking the hat pin out viciously in a temper. "My son will hear of this!" All because he'd refused to extend her credit any further. The time had come to call in her debts, and the stuck-up woman had not liked that one bit. Gambling on a vampire against a werewolf in the last dogfight - and it had almost come off, the nameless vampire had managed to stick a knife in the werewolf's neck, and avoided the dripping fangs and blood, only to find that Seth had 'accidentally' lost the key to the cage. And a werewolf that had seemingly come back to life in the dying seconds of the bout. What were the chances of that?

Still, no one knew this address. Herrick was nothing if not discreet when he talked politics, or money. And one set of ashes was much like another one, when it came to it.

The offer he'd received was all too welcome. And timely.

For now he had to face the more pressing issue of Mitchell's wayward behaviour. Herrick could smell whisky. He could smell beer. But the one thing he could not detect on Mitchell's sour breath was blood. Oh, he was his usual untidy self, certainly, a frayed collar and no sign of a tie, and his eyes were blood-shot, but Herrick wagered that Mitchell had gone on one of his famous crawls of the low-life areas, got drunk, and woken up in a doorway somewhere. And picked a fight with someone, judging by the bruise to Mitchell's face.

"Where did you get to, anyway? I said I was going to make a night of it. There's a charming little redhead at the George who asks after you. It's her day-off I believe. I said we'd pop in before the off." Herrick said silkily. Mitchell's eyes narrowed slightly. He hated any questions about what he got up to, away from the chafing attention of his maker. He looked down at his feet.

"Ah…nowhere. Got into it with a couple of lads."

"I hope they came off worse." Herrick wasn't going to let it lie, Mitchell knew it. That calm way he had of making everything seem normal, as if they were having a polite chat about the weather then hitting with a barbed comment. Or a fist. And he had no desire to have his jaw broken. Again. He drew in a deep breath, and waited.

"You're here now, anyway," Herrick turned to the mantle again, and lifted the glass. The blood inside glittered in the early morning light. Mitchell realised where this was heading. He'd known the second he'd seen that glass.

 _How did he know? He couldn't know._ That he had not been feeding, not even a drop at the hospital. St Thomas's, where he'd met Sweet Mary. He'd been plying her for weeks, but not taken advantage of her. Well not in the way that Herrick would approve of…It was always a useful tactic, to find a human to use, even if it was only in case of emergencies, when the hunger struck at its most fierce. But he'd been resisting the blood, even when he could feel it coursing through her veins as he took her against the wall…her soft moans had increased his hunger, but he'd held on…not giving in to the temptation to sink his fangs into her milk-white flesh…He remembered the last kill though. A man wasted by time on the streets. The pallor of poverty. A quiet lane behind a dilapidated warehouse at Ratcliff Cross. Weak fingers grasping at him, tugging at life as it ebbed away.

"No…you're not gettin' it…no" As though that would make any difference. A gentle clink as something fell from the man's calloused hand. In the midst of a glorious blood high, he had bent down to see what the man had kept clutched so tight. Something shiny. He turned it over.

A metal cap badge, gleaming in the mud. He recognised the detail on it at once, in a sickening realisation. His own former regiment. He felt his feet give way, he'd gripped at the wall, to steady himself, his nails scratching at an advertising poster, Bovril, god why did he remember that? He saw tin mugs lying on a makeshift table…the sound of a mouth organ…cold breaths gasped in sunken holes of mud…

_Breathe…breathe…_

Why did the little things break through when screams and blood made no difference?

_That's your conscience…what's left of it…bet he left that bit out of the recruiting spiel…oh…I forgot…you chose this…_

Some choice.

He'd glanced warily over at the man's already cooling body, lying bent and broken among the smashed bottles in the gutter, and just for a second he'd seen Arthur's face, just as he slipped away…He'd thrown the thing as far as he could. It was nothing more than a piece of rubbish now, to clutter up the bottom of the Thames. He'd looked into the man's now set eyes, at the mess he'd made of his neck, and then thrown up. He hadn't touched a drop of blood since.

Until now.

Herrick smiled. Mitchell frowned as his maker raised the glass, and offered it to him. He knew what was expected, but he was growing to despise the displays of power that Herrick insisted upon. The pleasantries of pain. He'd grown tired of the constant need to play to his maker's twisted whims and fancies. Crystal was fine in Paris, where everything was more refined. Here, as far as Mitchell was concerned, it just meant one more thing to wash up afterwards.

"A toast. To the future. New worlds, and all that." Mitchell looked up to the ceiling rose. The invitation hung on the air. He could smell the blood. It sat there, waiting, its aroma increasing moment upon painful moment. The temptation deepening…and beckoning…How long since he'd fed?

_Four weeks…three days…two hours…and…_

"Mitchell." He was counting off the seconds in his mind. Just how long would Herrick wait, before the inevitable questions would begin? He turned on the charm, the winning smile that worked so well with women.

"I'm alright Herrick. I had a little bite. Actually a pretty big bite. That bastard won't be picking any more…" He heard Herrick's harsh laugh.

"It would be rude not to have a last sip of old Albert here. Mine host, and all that. Mitchell," Herrick's tone changed. "I insist."

_He knew! The crafty old bugger knew. How? Christ, he'd just about got through the nightmares, the delusions, the victims standing just outside his vision, their eyes haunting him, the screams in his head…but a glass of blood being dangled in front of him, like a sick Christmas present…_

_Take it…it will make it all go away…it's too late anyway…you lost the moment you bartered your life away on that battlefield…take it…_

Herrick waited patiently, so sure that he'd reach for the glass. So cocksure, thought Mitchell. He could almost taste it, mere inches away. He clenched his fists, bracing against the urge. His eyes turned black, for a second.

"When was the last time, Mitchell?" It was said softly, paternally even. Mitchell crossed his arms, forcing himself to look anywhere but at his maker. Whatever he said would be an acknowledgement that he'd failed, that he'd weakened. That for a brief moment he had seen a glimpse of something different, a way through the corpse-filled woods…

But he knew that forgiveness was not for the likes of him. The War had ripped that part of him away a long time ago. It left this husk, only truly alive when killing. The irony was not lost on him. He could fool himself with excuses, the blood delaying the inevitable. It wasn't his fault, the others lived because he'd chosen sacrifice instead of death, weary of the carnage around him.

Yeah, right.

_I was weak._

The truth.

_I still am._

He launched himself forward, grabbed the glass and gulped it down. Herrick showed no emotion as he watched him hurl the glass at the fireplace. It smashed into fragments, showering the man's body. The blood still clung to Mitchell's lips as he threw his arms wide open.

"Happy now?!" The temper was back. Good, thought Herrick. A broad smile spread across his face, like the cat that got the cream.

"Delirious…" he replied, his eyes glittering. A mere blip. A closer watch was all he needed. His soldier would be fine.

* * *

  
"It was a whisper, just a whisper that's all. " God, the man was sweating like a pig. Then again, given his surroundings, he would probably do the same. If he had a soul that is…

"What was?"

"There was a fight last week. Out Bethnal Green way. A huge bet. Her Nibs…" The darkest of glares.

"Yes?" The man swallowed, his throat felt like sandpaper.

"Sorry…your sainted mother…she lost big…"

_Damn her…_

"Who was the taker?" The man's face showed his confusion. He looked round wildly at the faces surrounding him. Not one human among them...

"The taker?"

"The taker of bets." Was he talking to himself? "The person who held the stakes." The man beneath him flinched at the sound of laughter coming from behind him. "Stakes, get it?! I'm wasted here, I am…" The figure wheeled round. "Sorry…" mumbled the unseen voice.

 _"I repeat."_ He stooped down, his black eyes meeting the now terrified human who cowered at the sight of those fangs. So sharp. The human closed his eyes, defeated.

"One of your lot…" A hand slid round his throat, tipping it to one side.

"Yes?"

The name stumbled out, just before the screams began.

"Herrick…William Herrick…"

* * *

  
Footsteps in an empty house. So simple when you joined the dots. She never could throw anything out. It was a compulsion with her. From the days when they had nothing, hand-me-downs until even the rag man wouldn't take them. A cursory search of her dressing table had yielded an obscure address scribbled on the back of an envelope. And now they were here, searching for her, for any sign…

His foot stepped on something with a crunch. He lifted his foot away, to reveal a small shard of what looked like glass. The merest tint of blood on its edge. Someone had been thorough in gutting the house, clearing up, he could even smell bleach, carbolic soap, but not quite thorough enough. His anger, which he prided himself on keeping, even in the most trying of times, sparked. He had an appointment to keep the next day. The kind where it would be considered a staking offence if he did not keep it. Where was she? He walked through the house, and opened the back door. A withered rose bush sat in a gloomy garden. He walked over to it, as the sun faded. Odd, the colour of soil at its base…grey…An empty metal barrel stood close by. On an impulse, he reached down into the barrel, and pulled out a tattered scrap of fur. Two dead glass eyes looked up at him.

An impotent scream of rage rent the air.

The others looked round uneasily at each other.

"Oh shit…"

* * *

  
The cab pulled up just outside Marylebone Station. Herrick dipped his hand into his pocket.

"Keep the change." The cab driver took one look at the coins that had dropped into his palm.

"Thanks a bunch mate." He was still grumbling as he drove off.

"Now, where were we…ah yes?" Herrick strode off, case in hand, down the street. Mitchell stared up at the unfamiliar names. One stood out to his left. Wyndham Street. It rang a bell. He went to ask Herrick, but the older vampire was moving too briskly, his eyes focused on the task ahead.

"This way." Herrick was making for somewhere, that was obvious. He ran across another road, his gestured "sorry" cutting little ice with the annoyed driver that yelled at him. Mitchell had no idea where they were going, Herrick had mentioned a trip, but not the destination. In spite of Herrick's bravado it was obvious that his maker was nervous about something. Or someone. If he didn't know better, he would swear the old devil was dodging someone, like the times back home when Mitchell's mother had to dodge the rent man. They cut down another street. At last Mitchell recognised a landmark - Marble Arch. Herrick gestured to the Underground sign.

Finally, sighed Mitchell. This wild-goose chase would end soon.

"Where are we going?" he asked, exasperated.

"King's Cross - eventually," Herrick said quietly, keeping his voice low, his eyes searching out the humans around him. Their reassuring heartbeats. "Train leaves at half past seven."

"What train?" Herrick sat down heavily on the seat. Mitchell sank into the seat opposite as the train pulled away.

"The one to Scotland. The overnight train." Scotland? Herrick must have really pissed someone off, thought Mitchell. That was the only reason they'd be heading that far north.

"Great, so we leave Bristol, to go to London, now we are going…" Herrick held up a hand.

"All in good time, Mitchell. We will have a pleasant trip." Mitchell decided to chance his arm.

"And leave the mess behind?" Herrick's manner changed, just for a moment, then the smile was back in place. His recruit was learning.

"That obvious?" Mitchell smiled, relaxing as much as he could in the uncomfortable seat as he lifted a left-behind newspaper.

"Kinda."

* * *

  
"Tickets please!" A blast of steam meet them as they entered King's Cross. A jumble of bodies surrounded them. If anyone could spot them in this sea of humanity heading home to their dreary families, then they deserved every penny, thought Herrick.

"The LNER service to…" the voice on the tannoy could barely be heard above the din, but Herrick's sharp ears caught it.

"Which platform is it?" He looked up at the announcement board. A small queue stood waiting at the gate. Not too many, noted Mitchell. A quiet train then. Herrick bustled over to the railway office to buy their tickets, as Mitchell's attention was drawn to a woman standing a little away from the queue. She seemed to be holding back, as though she was waiting for someone. Long blonde hair, and legs that seemed to reach to heaven. He could just catch the scent she wore, lilies and something he couldn't place. He licked his lips. He still had the taste of the pretty barmaid who'd made them most welcome, until she'd seen their true nature. He could still hear her stifled scream as Herrick broke her neck. Mitchell had insisted on laying her out on the soft bed. She could almost have been sleeping, bar for the trace of blood weeping slowly into the frayed eiderdown from her pale wrists. No tidying up necessary after this one. Cheap accommodation for a cheap life. Violence was expected in such places.

"One for the road." Herrick had chuckled, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. This time he'd decanted the blood into a pint glass, a mocking last salute.

Back on the platform, the woman turned her face away, and Mitchell lost her momentarily in the crowd that surged forward for the boat train. A man stepped up to the ticket inspector, who glanced at his ticket, just as the man's case split open, depositing its contents on the ground. A chorus of laughs and catcalls ensued.

"I'm a commercial traveller." the red-faced man muttered, as he grasped at the frills and finery that now lay on the ground. Mitchell burst out laughing himself as a train guard came past.

"Suits you…" as the poor man lifted up something scarlet and lacy. The guard bowed to his audience as Mitchell glimpsed a swish of blonde hair as the woman took advantage of the commotion to slip past the ticket inspector with the studied ease of a professional. He smiled to himself. Tonight might be an interesting one.

Herrick walked back towards him, pocketing his wallet.

"Come on. We've time for a refreshment."

"Not here…" Mitchell whispered, eyes downcast. Herrick smiled.

"As if. I'm told they do a very nice sticky bun."

* * *

Mitchell watched Herrick pay for their cups of tea. "In finest bone china, you are a treasure my dear. Oh, and two of those delicious-looking…" Even Herrick's politeness hesitated at the soggy buns sitting on the counter. The woman serving him beamed, taken in by his polite brand of smarm, patting her hair back with one hand, revealing a long neck. With a small golden cross around it. Herrick winced. The woman seemed not to notice, but then she wasn't the most observant of women, two men sitting before her, who couldn't be seen in the mirror behind her…

Mitchell spread the tickets out on the table. Herrick seemed to have bought several, in First and Third Class, and for several destinations. It puzzled him for a minute.

"Can't be too careful Mitchell," Herrick sat down, and took a bite of the iced currant bun. He made a face. "Fresh…perhaps in 1936…"

"So we're headin' north." Herrick nodded. "Why?" He stirred his tea, not answering Mitchell immediately. He tapped the spoon on the cup.

"We are going to be doing a spot of travelling. I thought a change would do us both good. Sea air, bracing sea air…" There was that twinkle in Herrick's eye again. The bastard was enjoying himself, Mitchell knew.

"Where? It's not like you even like Scotland Herrick. What was it you called them? A bunch of porridge-eating, penny-pinching…"

Herrick's smile widened.

"All in good time Mitchell." A loud bell dinged. "Time to go."

"First Class?" Mitchell exclaimed, as he walked up the platform towards the right section. That was not laying low, but then Herrick did always like a touch of style. The stream-lined locomotive shone in its blue livery, a worker rubbing at a smear on the glass of a carriage as they passed.

"Might as well be comfortable. Long trek to Scotland." Herrick's eyes betrayed his nervousness. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Who have you pissed off, Herrick?"

"No one important Mitchell. And when we come back I will deal with it."

"We're coming back then?" Herrick's smile wavered for a moment.

"Oh yes. Nothing lasts forever, Mitchell." He waited for the platform guard to open the door to the First Class coach.

"Except us maybe…" muttered Mitchell, one eye on the man hauling what little luggage they had up into the racks above the seats, the other searching the faces of the few passengers who took their seats. He noted that no one else entered their compartment. Only six seats, and comfortable with it. He thought back to the rickety trains he'd been squeezed into travelling to the Front, his fellow troops practically sitting on top of each other, as the train belched out smoke.

"Only the best Mitchell." Herrick leaned forward and closed the curtains, pulling down the blinds to cover the glass panes that looked out onto the corridor. He slipped his hand into his coat, and drew out a silver pocket watch. He flipped it open.

One minute to go.

A whistle blew. Herrick finally sat down with an audible sigh of relief, as the train pulled away from the platform. Now he could relax and enjoy the journey.

* * *

The car screeched to a halt outside the station. He cursed the fools he'd set to watch the train stations. He'd sent one of his best to Dover, sure the boat train would be Herrick's choice, and Paris was a known hiding place of his, with that slut of a recruit of his precious John Mitchell running things in all but name. Liverpool Street…Euston…Marylebone…St Pancras…and now King's Cross…He'd threatened, cajoled, staked, and finally heard a vague rumour about a ship leaving port. He ran onto the concourse, reaching the gate in time to see the train pulling out. He stood seething, his sides aching, his brain frantically reaching for solutions. When was the next train north? A car would take too long. There'd be no flights from Croydon this late, so the earliest he could get there would be…

"Hello Villiers. Long-time no see. Come to see me off?" An all too familiar voice.

He cursed inwardly. Of all the times to miss an appointment.

"You look a bit pissed off…Buy an old friend a cuppa? Tell me all about it." It wasn't an invitation, he knew, more a command.

"The buns are good, or so I'm told. And if they aren't, we can always snack on a ticket inspector…"

And you very probably will, he thought wearily.

* * *

"Fancy a bite? They have a restaurant car, wood panelling, silver service…" Herrick was reading off a menu card.

"Nah, I'm still recovering from that wonderful iced bun," Mitchell said sarcastically, closing his eyes.

"That and the ravishing red head." Herrick broke into a grin.

 _God,_ thought Mitchell, _leave me alone for five fucking minutes…I drank her dry but it's still not enough for you. You have to pick over their very bones… I was a monster, I tormented her, because that's what you wanted me to do, wasn't it? It's what I am._

But…oh she'd tasted so sweet after the cold draft of Albert…the warmth in that blood…the fire…

"Yes she was a fine enough meal. Fear makes them more full-bodied, I find. Plenty more of them where we're headed."

"Which is where, Herrick?" His maker smiled knowingly, before replying:

"Glasgow."


	2. Chapter 2

France – 1916

It’s quiet. Too quiet. He can hear a faint scrabbling sound to his left. He ignores it, keeping his eyes firmly focused on the gloom ahead. Probably just rats, he thinks. He breathes out slowly, careful to blow his breath to one side. He’s well-camouflaged here, but you can never be too careful. He learnt that the first day he arrived here, in this sea of mud. A shell took out three of the men he’d trained with. A few steps to his right, and he’d have been among them. There’s no Full Moon tonight. For that at least, he’s grateful - though the enemy could be feet away and he’d never know it. The mist hangs low, shrouding the line opposite. He tightens his grip on the rifle, fingers like ice, despite the gloves. His last pair. His eyes scan the scene – barbed wire pierces through the muck. The Germans look to have retreated, but he has a feeling, no more than a hunch, that someone on the other side is doing exactly what he is – waiting. He can see the tattered remains of a uniform, covering what must have been a man once, lying half-way between the lines. The earth has made a pretty good job at swallowing the body. Pure, white bone pokes through one of the sleeves, as though trying to claw its way out. He hears the scrabbling sound again, this time a little to his left. Some soldiers whisper of unseen horrors, lying in wait out there. Ghosts of men, preying on the living. He doesn’t believe a word of it. Superstitious claptrap. Rats, definitely, he thinks, reminding himself to stamp on a few when he gets back to the dug-out. It feels like hours that he’s been lying here, hidden by the bank of mud that the last explosion hurled up. The waiting is the worst. The silence allows his mind to roam too far. Thoughts of home, long-gone now. The decision had been made for him, by what had happened on the streets of Dublin, when he’d fired on his own. He’d done his duty, but his family hadn’t seen it that way. The priesthood or the army, and he’d made the wrong choice. No matter that they’d have lost him either way, he could see that now. He’d never have made a priest, not even a piss-poor one, not with what he’d got up to with Aoife behind the parochial house anyway…

There.

The mist’s lifting, finally. The pinpoint, amber glow of a cigarette, lighting a pale face just for a second.

He takes aim, fires. The report sounds so loud in the darkness. The bullet hits its mark – with a bit of luck it’ll have hit the bastard who did for his captain the other day. He slips down from his hiding place as bullets slam into the duckboards above his head. 

“Nice one, mate,” says Arthur, once he’s crawled back to the dug-out. “How many now?” he asks, rummaging in his pocket.

“Not enough,” replies Mitchell. He watches as Arthur blows on a piece of shiny metal, a cap from a German beer bottle, and pushes it into the gap between the boards along the wall. Ten bottle caps lie in a row. He can still see that skull in his mind, stark white against the mud, the hollows where the eyes sat empty, devoid of any humanity now. He draws a pack of Woodbines from his pocket, and opens them. He offers one to Arthur, who never refuses the chance of a fly smoke.

Never enough…

1938

Mitchell woke with a start. His head felt like it was splitting open, and his tongue felt like sandpaper. The sign of a good night, usually. For a second he couldn’t place where he was. A train compartment. He could just about remember that much, through the haze. Vague images started to come back, of a dingy room, a red scarf draped over a lamp, a trail of blood falling slowly down white skin, so pale it was almost luminous in that pitiful light. He licked his lips without even thinking about it. It had been so good, that feeling of holding another’s life in his hands again. The duffle bag he’d crammed with what few possessions he had, lay at his feet. So that’s what woke me up, he thought. He searched for his hipflask, hair of the dog and all that. He found it at the bottom of the bag. Battered metal, and worn leather, stained with god knows what. Then he remembered exactly where he’d been given it – France. He threw it back in the bag, and slung it up into the luggage rack.  
Where was Herrick, anyway? He’d tell him such thoughts were maudlin, a weakness that only humanity needed to suffer. They could afford to be sentimental, their lives were short, meaningless. Mitchell could hear his voice in his ear: 

“They can’t see the bigger picture. They’re trapped in their world of supposed “freedom”. They rail against it, but they never do anything. They sleepwalk through, shuffling towards death. They hide from life, in their pokey little brick houses, two-up, two-down lives. It’s sad, really. Poor things…”

Blood and booze…Christ, he needed a leak. He stumbled as he stood up again, the result of so much blood after a break. He yanked at his cheap tie, throwing it on the seat beside him, then shrugged off his jacket. He took a deep breath, then let it slowly out. Why had he even tried it? Such a pointless exercise. Nothing could change the past, nothing could change the future. He was a killer – pure and simple. And he’d been that a long time before that fateful day in France, when he’d fallen into Herrick’s tender clutches. That day was etched into his brain, his last day as a living, breathing being. A bitter thought came to him – that the crows had more respect for the dead than the vampires had. He remembered advancing slowly, his rifle trained on the ‘men’, not quite believing his own eyes at the scene unfolding before him. He remembered offering his life for the sake of his men, and Herrick’s smile at his naivety, at what passed for courage in his god-forsaken bones. The deal being struck with the piercing of his flesh, in that unholy silence, as the vampires stood back, melting into the mist. Herrick’s whispers, that he’d have a new life, a better life, a free life…It seemed to take forever, as his senses left him, then a strange taste in his mouth – the vampires’ communion and its twisted nature. He’d grimaced at that, memories of priests reciting words that meant nothing to him until that moment, when death took him for its own. Then there’d been nothing. 

Well, that wasn’t quite true, was it? 

He slammed shut those memories, of what went on beyond the door. Nothing, until he felt something land on his face, and waking to the harsh cries of crows, angry at losing their hard-won meal. His eyes had opened to a new world, and he’d never looked back, never wavered.

Until now.

The door to the gentlemen’s toilet stayed firmly shut. Mitchell hammered the door. 

“Ah, come on. No one can take that long, unless you’ve got a woman in there…in which case, fair play to ya, but…” He could see the train guard at the end of the corridor. Was there anyone in that toilet at all? 

“Tickets!” the guard knocked on the first compartment’s door. Mitchell pushed against the door and it gave. God these things were a tight fit. Especially if a woman was standing right behind the door. His blonde mystery woman…

“Please…” she whispered, “Don’t give me away! I don’t have a ticket…” A London accent. 

“I don’t know now…that’s not very fair…I mean the guy’s only doing his job…” 

“Quick! He’s coming…” She yanked him into the toilet, pushing the door shut behind him. 

“We haven’t even been introduced, darlin’…” Mitchell drawled. The guard was moving closer now. Mitchell could hear his heartbeat above the one that was so close to him now. 

“Please…” she repeated. 

A loud knocking. 

“Tickets. Come on, I haven’t got all night…” Mitchell put a finger to his lips. The girl nodded slowly. He opened the door, shielding her from sight. 

“Thank you sir.” A cursory glance from the guard, turned into a more searching one. He seemed to be weighing Mitchell up and down. “First Class, is it?” Mitchell straightened, sensing trouble. He felt the girl’s hand grip at his arm behind the door, as if she knew what he was thinking. It was the guy’s sneering tone that did it – not good enough for the likes of him. He’d show him. He’d show him alright. 

“Ah. There you are soldier.” Herrick appeared at the guard’s shoulder. “I’d have thought you’d had enough time to spruce yourself up. I was about to send out a search party.” He leaned into the guard, and whispered: “You must forgive my sergeant. Last hurrah before we head back to camp. I’m afraid he was celebrating a little too much.” Herrick’s pointed gaze fell on Mitchell’s shirt. He’d forgotten all about it in the rush for the train. A final gift from the redhead, as her life had ebbed away. Small, but just noticeable. 

“Fell in with a bad crowd.” Herrick’s eyes seemed to cool as he spoke. “But he’ll be fine once we’re back in harness. You know how it is.” The guard nodded slowly, seeming to take Herrick’s word for it. 

“I do indeed, sir.” The man puffed up. “I served in the war. Saw things you wouldn’t believe.” He jerked his head in Mitchell’s direction. “These young’uns don’t know they’re born, do they sir? Not like us.” Mitchell’s resentment at the smug man’s attitude was increasing by the second. He’d seen the horror – the real horror – the nights where no man slept, the weak cries of their comrades keeping them awake as they bled to death in No Man’s Land, mere feet away from help. Enemy guns trained on their trenches to pick off anyone foolish enough to go after them. They were dead already, though no one had the guts to tell them. Mitchell gazed at the man with contempt. He recognised the type – the ones who spoke in such glowing terms of war were always the ones who’d seen the least action - the man had probably never even seen the Front, he seemed a more likely candidate for the catering corps…literally…

“Indeed,” muttered Herrick. “Well, we mustn’t keep you from your very important duties.” The guard smiled uncertainly, not quite sure whether he’d just been complimented or not. He wisely chose the latter, and left them to it. Herrick shook his head.

“I don’t know. I leave you for five minutes,” he peered over Mitchell’s shoulder. “Hello, my dear. You can come out now. We haven’t been introduced. Mitchell…” he chided, “keeping such a charming young lady to yourself.” Mitchell felt a pang of possessiveness, as the girl edged round to face Herrick. He held out his hand, and the girl took it. “My name is Herrick. And I am glad to see Mitchell here was taking care of you.” He was toying with him, Mitchell knew. The knowing gleam was back in those cold eyes. 

“Mary. My name’s Mary.” Herrick’s eyes widened.

“Is it? I knew a Mary in London. Sweet girl. A nurse.” An icy chill ran through Mitchell. His eyes met Herrick’s. And there it was, the malice beneath. He couldn’t conceal his hatred. It blazed through him.

You bastard. And I’ll bet she’s in the Thames...

Herrick bowed his head, the movement was lost on the girl, but not on Mitchell.

Guilty as charged. Does it matter, really?

The game was subtly changing, altering with each kill. He realised that now. And it was a question Mitchell really didn’t want to answer. And all the while the blood he’d drained from the pretty redhead was calling him back. It always did. From the moment the old man’s blood had touched his lips. The hunger was whispering to him even now:

It doesn’t matter. She didn’t matter. None of them do. No more than a moment in your life. Not even that. Driftwood.

He let it in, let it cushion him, as it always did. Every nerve and sinew relaxing, warming. An illusion, he thought, just for a second, before looking his maker full in the face.

No. It doesn’t matter.

Herrick was right. The nurse would have ended up dead in some dark alley anyway, if he was being honest with himself, which he rarely was. She was no different to that barmaid, really, in the scheme of things. 

“Sergeant, you’d better get cleaned up. That’s a nasty shaving cut. I’ll take care of Mary,” Herrick noticed the look in Mitchell’s eyes, and smiled. “Where are you heading to, my dear?” Paternal, friendly, like the uncle you always liked, thought Mitchell. That was Herrick’s secret – never let them see the monster until it was too late. 

“Newcastle. I couldn’t afford the fare, I -” Herrick interrupted.

“No need to explain Mary. There’s plenty of room in our compartment. If we can’t help a fellow traveller in need, then what are we coming to?” He turned and placed a hand in the small of her back. As he led her away down the corridor, Mitchell knew he was beaming from ear to ear.

Having scrubbed as much of the blood out as he could, and sloughing cold water over his face to sober up enough to hopefully pass even Herrick’s inspection, Mitchell hurried back to the compartment. He needed to sober up fast. Whenever Herrick introduced himself to a human, it rarely ended well. He found Mary sitting alone, leafing through the evening paper. He dragged the door open as loudly as he could.

“Oh! You startled me!” she whispered, beaming up at him, wide-eyed. “Thank you for not, you know…” 

“No trouble,” said Mitchell, as he reached above her for his duffle bag. That was funny, he could have sworn his bag was round the other way. Mary seemed to notice his hesitation.

“Your bag fell down. I put it back up. Is that ok?”

“Fine.” Mitchell kept his eyes on the luggage rack.

“He’s very nice, your captain. Said he’d see if there were any sandwiches going, if I was peckish.”

He snorted. Captain…

“Yeah, he’s a prince. I’ll be right back.” He didn’t give her a chance to interrupt him as he slammed the door again.

He could just about buy the bag falling, it had clouted him awake, after all. But what he could not buy was the fact that it had a completely different knot in the cord. He stopped in the corridor and looked back at the compartment door. He could be mistaken, of course. Let her rifle all she liked, there was nothing personal in his bag. He didn’t do personal. 

“What the hell are you playing at, Herrick?” The older vampire watched Mitchell slump into the seat opposite, before putting down his fork and knife, and setting aside his napkin. The dining car was empty, apart from the waiter and one other passenger by the faraway window, dozing under a newspaper. 

“Nothing, Mitchell. I am merely being polite.” Ever the polished gentleman act. It had begun to grate on Mitchell more often of late. 

“A quick fumble then I chew her throat, is that it?” Herrick’s eyes went to the waiter at the bottom of the carriage.

“A little louder. They might have missed that in Edinburgh. And I’d advise you to keep your voice down, if you don’t wish sweet Mary to be thrown off at York. We’ve all done it.” 

Mitchell snorted, as he plucked a bread roll out of the basket, and began tearing it apart.

“Yeah but in your day it’d be a bugger to hop a horse and cart.” He watched Herrick’s smile fade just slightly. His maker’s ego was a fragile thing at times, though he always recovered quickly.

“As it was in your day too, Mitchell, you’re not that young anymore.” 

“Meaning?” 

“Meaning – a little company will do you good. You’re always moaning that you’re bored with my company.”

Mitchell leaned forward, glaring at him.

“You’re playing a game.” Herrick’s face was all outraged innocence.

“I don’t know what you mean. I am being polite. Now we have a very long journey ahead of us, and I would like to finish my – I’m not actually sure what this is – “

“Since when do you do the old ‘Good Samaritan’ bit?” 

“Add a little Hail Mary in there, why don’t you?” Herrick said testily. He pushed his plate away. “Why should I have any ulterior motive?”

“Because you don’t even breathe without checking what’s in it for you?” 

“You know me so well.” Herrick’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. 

“This world is a harsh, unforgiving place at the best of times – and our kind are the cause of much of it, as we should be,” he said, noticing Mitchell’s ironic look. “She reminded me of a client I once knew, that’s all. You have my word, Mitchell, I will personally escort her off the train in one piece. There, are you satisfied?” He snapped his fingers at the waiter, the conversation was seemingly over. “I think I’ll have some dessert.” He made a show of perusing the menu. “What do you think, a little Charlotte Russe?”

“Didn’t you eat her in Paris?” Mitchell snapped. Herrick grinned. 

“It’s good to have you back, Mitchell. In the fold, I mean. Not that you were ever really away.” Mitchell looked away for a moment, then sighed. He sat back in the chair, and waited for the waiter to take away the dishes, before speaking again. 

“Why did you recruit me?” He watched Herrick pour wine into two glasses, and push one of them towards him. He downed it in one, holding it out for a refill.

“The honest truth?” Mitchell nodded. Herrick poured more wine into his glass. 

“I saw something in you. An anger. You were born of war, Mitchell. That hunger, that rage, was there in you already. It only needed to be released,” he paused, waiting for his words to sink in. “You were a natural. Aside from the running away bit, that was a tad disappointing, I have to say, but then again, some of the best recruits waver occasionally.”

“But not you,” said Mitchell. 

“Not me.” Herrick brushed a crumb from the table. “But you, Mitchell…from the moment you accepted what you were, you were the darkest recruit I’ve ever seen.” Herrick took a sip of his own wine. “Tell me, what do you feel, right at this moment?” Mitchell looked down at his hands. There were no tremors now, no twinges of guilt in his mind. He felt at peace for the first time in weeks, no nagging thoughts of what had happened in the past. Let it go. Let it all go…He looked up at his maker, and smiled. 

“Exactly!” said Herrick, a sly look on his face. “Why put yourself through such torment? The decision was made a long time ago, Mitchell.” He drained the last of his wine. “By the way, why did you enlist?” It came so out of the blue, Mitchell blinked. Herrick continued. “I mean, you didn’t have to. Not as though you’d have got the white feather treatment, not in Ireland. They’d probably have given you a medal for not joining up.” Mitchell laughed, to cover his surprise at the question.

“Think I was drunk. Must have been.” He watched Herrick’s smile widen. “Got a vague memory of betting someone I wouldn’t do it – half a bob. Think I’m still owed it.”

But that’s not true…

I made my choice.

Not that simple, surely?

“Will I tell you why I think you joined up, Mitchell?” Herrick said silkily, taking his silence for agreement. 

“Go on.”

“You wanted another life. You saw a chance, and you took it. A way out. You knew that deep down inside, you were made for something better. That’s not a fault, Mitchell, that’s what marks you out.” Herrick sat back in his seat. “You wanted more. I recognised that in you – when you pleaded for your men. You’re a natural leader. People look up to you.” Mitchell grunted in disbelief.

“Yeah, sure. Seth, maybe, but then he looks up to anyone who can string two words together and not fall over their own shoelaces.”

“In fairness, that was only the one time, but Seth has his uses.”

As do I, thought Mitchell, cynically. 

Herrick made a show of pulling his pocket watch from his jacket. 

“Dear me, is that the time?” He clicked his fingers at the waiter again. This time, the man brought over a plate of sandwiches and set them down on the table. “Sergeant, you will be on report when we get back to barracks, is that clear?” Mitchell eyed him, but he recognised the ploy. He smarted a little at the tone, chafing at Herrick playing his tin-pot soldier role, but bit back a retort. 

“Do you think that’s enough time for our little friend to have rummaged through our things more thoroughly?” Herrick’s mouth twitched into a grin. Sharp as ever, thought Mitchell. He doubted if Herrick had anything personal in his case either. Vampires tended to travel light.

“Now that’s not very nice, after our hospitality. Still, I did promise her a bite to eat.” He pushed the plate towards Mitchell. “What? It’s a joke!” 

Herrick watched him stalk back down the corridor. He closed his watch, tapping it lightly. Then he raised his glass in a mock toast, muttering under his breath:

“Goodbye Piccadilly, farewell Leicester Square…”

When he got back to the compartment the woman was asleep. He slammed the door shut to wake her. She jolted upright.

“Sorry. Mary, isn’t it?” She nodded, smiling. “Compliments of my captain.” He handed the plate over as he sat down. 

“Thanks for this. I thought I’d more money in my purse. You’re very kind, I feel terrible for imposing on you,” she said through a mouthful of cheese and pickle. She ate as though she hadn’t had a meal in a while, thought Mitchell. He looked at her with new eyes. She was skinnier than he remembered, but her hair seemed golden in the lamplight, and those legs he’d admired so much on the platform did seem endless. And he had to admit, when it came down to company, he’d much prefer some inane chatter with someone he’d never met to his maker’s almost mystical occupation with backroom vampire politics. Didn’t take a lot to work out they were fleeing some trouble or other. He couldn’t remember anything happening, other than the death of that old man, and who’d miss another old codger anyway? He didn’t concern himself with what happened in the aftermath of a kill - that was for others to take care of. It would be a long journey, but anything had to be better than Herrick’s “secret war” spiel. That and answering the question why he’d joined up in the first place. Wouldn’t take long for his maker to realise he’d never answered that particular question. 

“So Mary,” he flashed her a smile, as he settled back, “tell me all about yourself.”

He’d found over the years since he’d been recruited, that humans loved nothing more than to tell you their life story, no matter how boring their circumstances. The times he’d listened, seemingly engrossed in the trials and tribulations of secretaries and shop girls, their names and faces blurred by the passage of time. All told a variation of the same sad story – parents who didn’t understand them, employers who shouted at them then tried to touch them up behind the counter, boyfriends who didn’t seem that interested in putting a ring on their finger. He’d tormented some with taunts of how it was too late to worry about that, right as he pierced their flesh, as tears streamed down their faces. He enjoyed that terror, he often watched mesmerised as the eyes flashed fiercely, desperate to cling on to life, just as it ebbed away from them. The taste sharpened, he savoured it, revelling in his notoriety. The monster in the dark, waking to find the covers saturated in blood, wondering if there was just one more drink in the lifeless body next to him. It was an addiction, he realised that now, but it had its hold on him. No amount of handwringing, promises not to kill - only to drink a little from drugged whores in back alleys, could hide the truth. Not any longer. He’d been mad to think he could fight it. He couldn’t run from what he was. It was time to let himself drown in it. Herrick was right. Embrace it, truly live this strange, wonderful life. It was the only way.

Among the chatter, he learned that Mary had a fiancée, supposedly. Michael. A “right nice fella”, she’d said with a faraway look in her eye. No ring as yet, but he was saving up for it, he’d put the deposit down with the jewellers’ already. He smiled at that. She was indeed just another of the daydreaming girls, waiting for the ring before anything more. Right. Michael was a soldier, newly enlisted. She’d had the grace to look a little ashamed that she’d been gossiping about him to a stranger.

“It’s just, you’re such a good listener.”

“It’s fine, Mary. I thought you must be spoken for, nice girl like you.” 

She’d beamed even more at that, her cheeks blushing. 

“He’s doing his training right now.”

“Really?” like he was interested. “Which regiment?”

“Same as you.” 

“The Royal Dublin Fusiliers?” He said it without thinking. It was the first personal bit of information he’d given her in the whole conversation.

She nodded, then smiled a little uncertainly. He changed the subject, asking her where she lived. Five minutes later he was being regaled with tales about her Aunty Mavis, who she lived with in a tiny flat near Waterloo Station. How she worked in Boots, how her boss was a “dried-up old prune” called Miss Ellis. He let her waffle on, all the while something was nagging at his brain. At first he put it down to coming down from the barmaid’s blood, but something felt off. He felt his eyes drift from her face to her neck, the exact spot where the main artery sat, just beneath the skin. Ridiculous. He’d drunk more than his fill from that last kill. He forced his gaze back to her face. She was looking at him with concern. 

“Are you alright? You look a bit peaky.” 

“Something must have disagreed with me.” She commiserated with him.

“I get that way when I’ve had a shandy. Not that I drink a lot,” she hastened to add, knocking her bag onto the floor as she said it. The clasp opened, and a small bundle of tissue paper tipped out. She stooped to pick it up, but Mitchell was quicker than her. He held it up to the light. Mary’s face turned white.   
“What have we here? Present for your sweetheart?” She made to snatch the roll back from him, but he held it up out of her reach. She sat back in her seat, and crossed her arms. She looked even more attractive in a temper. He smiled to himself. “Wouldn’t happen to be the York Road, would it? Where you really live, or should I say, work?” He’d hit the right spot. The shocked look on her face said it all. The York Road had been famous when he’d been in the army, for a warm bed, and an equally warm body next to you - for a price. Her eyes blazed at him. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. How dare you – “ Mitchell opened the tissue, to find a gold tie pin, with a chunk of diamond in the centre.

“It’s amazing what Boots sells these days, isn’t it?” He waited for her to answer, but she stayed silent, her eyes now resolutely on the floor at her feet.

“I think we’re both running, aren’t we, Mary?” She looked back up at him, surprised.

He held out his hand. She waited a moment before snatching the pin back, and dropping it into her handbag. She was growing in confidence, now. 

“I don’t think either of us is what we appear to be. The Royal Dublin Fusiliers?” She said it with a mocking smile. “They disbanded years back. And if you’re going to make out you’re a soldier, you and your so-called “Captain”, you might want to make sure you’re in the same regiment. He said he was in the Royal Army Corps.” She took a breath, and looked him straight in the eye. She hadn’t seen the subtle change in his features, as she’d spat the words at him.

“So if I’m a liar, what does that make you, John Mitchell?” She was astonished when he burst out laughing. 

“The same as you, sweetheart. A liar, and a cheat. Fancy a drink?” 

 

It had started slowly, Mary thought. She’d allowed herself one drink, then another, sure she could hold her drink. But she’d soon lost count of how many she’d had. She was talking too much, she knew, but everything came spilling out. It wasn’t a lie as such, she did work part-time in Boots, but there never seemed enough money left at the end of the week. And then she’d been told of a way to make money, hand over fist. She smiled in recollection. And the sly way she’d been drawn into it, the smartly dressed woman who stopped at her counter, coming back again and again, tempting her, pointing out the advantages, never any of the disadvantages. Oh they never did that, she thought bitterly. 

I’ll do it. Just the once. 

And then she’d met Michael, and everything changed. Her world had turned upside down. She was going to surprise him in Newcastle – he didn’t know she was coming. It had all been last minute. A new life on the cards, finally. She’d taken the pin, she’d earned it, hadn’t she?

“Yes. You earned it. Ssh…” as his hand slid up her skirt. She’d slapped his face at that. He’d just laughed, but he’d kept his hand where it was. She thought his eyes had gone a funny colour, for a second, but that was impossible. Trick of the light. 

“He won’t know. I won’t tell him, will you?” he’d whispered. She’d answered playfully:

“What kind of a girl do you think I am?” 

And she knew that, even though she was drunk, that something wasn’t quite right, that she should stop, that this was madness…but it felt right somehow…she was enjoying every second of it…the thrill that someone could enter the compartment any moment and…oh that felt good…

“I won’t tell him…” she said softly, her breath was growing more rapid now, she could almost hear her own heartbeat. She closed her eyes. She was so close to - 

Then it struck her. Drunk as she was. Something hazy. When she’d been hiding in the toilet. The mirror…

Her eyes flew open. She saw him for what he truly was – the man your mother always warned you about, the one waiting in the shadows, the monster with the black eyes, all humanity gone. 

“No, you won’t…”


End file.
